Prose
Saturnine
by Bernardo Villela
by Bernardo Villela
Once Saturnine could be seen sitting at the baby grand piano in his family’s living room practicing. On his ninth birthday, he dazzled friends and family with his virtuosity.
He was still not yet ten, but so much had changed since that party. It started with a bad bout of encephalitis. The hearing loss was dramatic and fast. Hardly any time elapsed between his being declared legally deaf and completely deaf by his pediatrician and ENT alike.
#
Nothing had been normal since then, his world had been flipped on end. His mother had hoped that the holidays, with family newly around, would change that. As she laid a steaming plate of food down—goose, mashed potatoes, and cranberry relish—and he didn’t change his expression, she knew he wasn’t there yet.
His Aunt Ingrid, who looked much like his mother, only a brunette to his mother’s blonde, said:
[“Saturnine is getting so handsome. What did the doctor say last week?”]
Regina, his mother, tried to indicate to Ingrid that they shouldn’t talk about it. Saturnine had read their lips (he started learning that quickly), got up, and got a drink to detach from their conversation.
He passed by his chuckling Uncle Oliver and saw his older cousin, Michael, banging on a plate.
The living room was bedecked with tinsel and holly, the family gathered around in whatever seats they could find.
His mother sat at the piano. He read off the sheet music that she was playing: “Moonlight Sonata.” Her eyes closed and her torso swayed back and forth as she got lost in the song and notes reverberated around the room.
As melancholy set in, he sneaked upstairs unnoticed. He took out a book about the solar system he’d had since kindergarten. When he got in a mood like this, he liked to stare at his planetary namesake.
Taking rosary beads off a nail in his wall, he began to pray.
He still recited his prayers aloud out of force of habit.
Rosary completed, he opened his laptop and closed his browser whose tabs contained research on deafness he’d been doing.
The word processing app was still open to his diary. Writing, he felt his fingers falling on to keys. He was entranced by the words appearing on screen, but there was no catharsis.
Picking up a tennis ball, he threw it against a wall angrily. The pop of a tennis ball being struck was a sound he loved.
As he stood, he saw the moon now hanging high in the sky.
#
His inner monologue was not silent, he still remembered the sound of his voice as he tried to read their lips (there was still much to learn). It was frustrating learning the basics over again.
Often he went to the bathroom just to wash his face. It was not dirty, it was a process in which he removed his sight, but he had control of it. It was not conscious.
What was conscious was that he didn’t want a DEAF CHILD AREA sign to go up, to change schools, didn’t want to be different, didn’t want to be pitied. Ever. When the words they formed with rudimentary signs said nice things, positive things, things to be thankful for, he saw the pity they tried to hide. He saw and understood better than he used to.
[“Hello”] his cousin David said. Saturnine nodded and dried his face. The first-floor powder room must’ve been occupied, why else would his cousin come up here?
Saturnine went down to continue to watch his mother play. He sat on the staircase looking out through the baluster slats. No one took note of him, they were lost in the music.
He went back up to his room. Michael and David were roughhousing. When he opened the door to his room he felt a push against his head by his left ear.
David’s screaming, he thought with a smile.
Looking at them, he saw he was right. That he could’ve guessed whenever. David was a shrieker, but that feeling made him wonder.
A staccato beat.
Michael’s laughing, he thought proceeding to enter his room. Turning anew, he confirmed that and smiled.
Saturnine ran downstairs, making Michael and David take notice.
Entering the living room, he felt small breezes and pumps of pressure coming his way— applause. His mother had finished the song.
Everyone was facing the piano. Saturnine mumbled a garbled “Excuse me,” his voice had begun to slur in his first year of deafness. As family and friends began to turn toward him he began to sign.
—Excuse me. Pardon me.
[“Encore.”] Saturnine saw a few people call out. His mother’s attention drifted from the accolades to him. Her eyes were locked on her son who was walking with a purpose.
[“I can’t think of anything else.”] he saw her say absentmindedly.
Arriving at the piano, Saturnine reaches out to the book of sheet music. He flipped to “Liebestraume No. 3” by Franz Liszt.
—May I?
Regina nodded, smiling, trying to choke back emotion.
His father walked up, nervous. Saturnine looked up at him and said [“Regina, is this a good idea? What if he can’t?”]
Saturnine merely looked at him and signed--
—Please
—OK.
[“This is one of his favorites.”] His mother tells them.
He took the sheet music, then laid his head on the piano as he plinked out the first few notes. He hadn’t touched the piano in months, it used to be his greatest joy. In the depressive state he wallowed in trying to adjust to his new reality, he stopped, thinking, How could I ever again?
Now, a calm inner quiet had come to him during this season that made him not worry, doubt, or pity himself as much. He’d sat upon this bench and played since before many of his friends could recite their ABCs. He was done stopping himself. It was something else he’d learn to do anew.
A few bars down the page, he leaned back and felt more confident, the song, unheard, flowing through him. Much like his inner voice, his memory of this music still lived within him. He could still feel it.
Regina readied her hands in a moment of doubt, thinking he would make a mistake, but he didn’t. Then she reached to turn the page for him, but he got it right on time.
With that, they all knew they were to let him finish. They watched and enjoyed. He had come into his own again. His parents still lamented that as a child in his formative years he had to adjust and redefine himself before most children have to, and would still have to do so again. But in that awestruck moment, they saw again how remarkable their son was and that they’d allowed themselves to forget that.
Saturnine felt great playing, but was a little off timing-wise on some notes as he was rusty. When he was done, his eyes which had closed—as muscle memory had taken over—opened and he saw something he’d not seen in a while: joy in his parents' faces, the admiration of his family for something other than his so-called bravery, and that they saw him at last, just the same as he’d always been now that he’d found a way to show them.
With all the emotion he felt, he didn’t want to overwhelm his parents, even at nine, even after all that had happened, so he knew what he said (signed) next would be crucial.
—Where are the Christmas songbooks?
His mother, after repeating what he asked for those not versed in ASL, laughed, wiped away a tear, and quickly found one. Saturnine opened it to “O Holy Night,” so they could all sing. His statement had been made, and he no longer needed the spotlight.
He was still not yet ten, but so much had changed since that party. It started with a bad bout of encephalitis. The hearing loss was dramatic and fast. Hardly any time elapsed between his being declared legally deaf and completely deaf by his pediatrician and ENT alike.
#
Nothing had been normal since then, his world had been flipped on end. His mother had hoped that the holidays, with family newly around, would change that. As she laid a steaming plate of food down—goose, mashed potatoes, and cranberry relish—and he didn’t change his expression, she knew he wasn’t there yet.
His Aunt Ingrid, who looked much like his mother, only a brunette to his mother’s blonde, said:
[“Saturnine is getting so handsome. What did the doctor say last week?”]
Regina, his mother, tried to indicate to Ingrid that they shouldn’t talk about it. Saturnine had read their lips (he started learning that quickly), got up, and got a drink to detach from their conversation.
He passed by his chuckling Uncle Oliver and saw his older cousin, Michael, banging on a plate.
The living room was bedecked with tinsel and holly, the family gathered around in whatever seats they could find.
His mother sat at the piano. He read off the sheet music that she was playing: “Moonlight Sonata.” Her eyes closed and her torso swayed back and forth as she got lost in the song and notes reverberated around the room.
As melancholy set in, he sneaked upstairs unnoticed. He took out a book about the solar system he’d had since kindergarten. When he got in a mood like this, he liked to stare at his planetary namesake.
Taking rosary beads off a nail in his wall, he began to pray.
He still recited his prayers aloud out of force of habit.
Rosary completed, he opened his laptop and closed his browser whose tabs contained research on deafness he’d been doing.
The word processing app was still open to his diary. Writing, he felt his fingers falling on to keys. He was entranced by the words appearing on screen, but there was no catharsis.
Picking up a tennis ball, he threw it against a wall angrily. The pop of a tennis ball being struck was a sound he loved.
As he stood, he saw the moon now hanging high in the sky.
#
His inner monologue was not silent, he still remembered the sound of his voice as he tried to read their lips (there was still much to learn). It was frustrating learning the basics over again.
Often he went to the bathroom just to wash his face. It was not dirty, it was a process in which he removed his sight, but he had control of it. It was not conscious.
What was conscious was that he didn’t want a DEAF CHILD AREA sign to go up, to change schools, didn’t want to be different, didn’t want to be pitied. Ever. When the words they formed with rudimentary signs said nice things, positive things, things to be thankful for, he saw the pity they tried to hide. He saw and understood better than he used to.
[“Hello”] his cousin David said. Saturnine nodded and dried his face. The first-floor powder room must’ve been occupied, why else would his cousin come up here?
Saturnine went down to continue to watch his mother play. He sat on the staircase looking out through the baluster slats. No one took note of him, they were lost in the music.
He went back up to his room. Michael and David were roughhousing. When he opened the door to his room he felt a push against his head by his left ear.
David’s screaming, he thought with a smile.
Looking at them, he saw he was right. That he could’ve guessed whenever. David was a shrieker, but that feeling made him wonder.
A staccato beat.
Michael’s laughing, he thought proceeding to enter his room. Turning anew, he confirmed that and smiled.
Saturnine ran downstairs, making Michael and David take notice.
Entering the living room, he felt small breezes and pumps of pressure coming his way— applause. His mother had finished the song.
Everyone was facing the piano. Saturnine mumbled a garbled “Excuse me,” his voice had begun to slur in his first year of deafness. As family and friends began to turn toward him he began to sign.
—Excuse me. Pardon me.
[“Encore.”] Saturnine saw a few people call out. His mother’s attention drifted from the accolades to him. Her eyes were locked on her son who was walking with a purpose.
[“I can’t think of anything else.”] he saw her say absentmindedly.
Arriving at the piano, Saturnine reaches out to the book of sheet music. He flipped to “Liebestraume No. 3” by Franz Liszt.
—May I?
Regina nodded, smiling, trying to choke back emotion.
His father walked up, nervous. Saturnine looked up at him and said [“Regina, is this a good idea? What if he can’t?”]
Saturnine merely looked at him and signed--
—Please
—OK.
[“This is one of his favorites.”] His mother tells them.
He took the sheet music, then laid his head on the piano as he plinked out the first few notes. He hadn’t touched the piano in months, it used to be his greatest joy. In the depressive state he wallowed in trying to adjust to his new reality, he stopped, thinking, How could I ever again?
Now, a calm inner quiet had come to him during this season that made him not worry, doubt, or pity himself as much. He’d sat upon this bench and played since before many of his friends could recite their ABCs. He was done stopping himself. It was something else he’d learn to do anew.
A few bars down the page, he leaned back and felt more confident, the song, unheard, flowing through him. Much like his inner voice, his memory of this music still lived within him. He could still feel it.
Regina readied her hands in a moment of doubt, thinking he would make a mistake, but he didn’t. Then she reached to turn the page for him, but he got it right on time.
With that, they all knew they were to let him finish. They watched and enjoyed. He had come into his own again. His parents still lamented that as a child in his formative years he had to adjust and redefine himself before most children have to, and would still have to do so again. But in that awestruck moment, they saw again how remarkable their son was and that they’d allowed themselves to forget that.
Saturnine felt great playing, but was a little off timing-wise on some notes as he was rusty. When he was done, his eyes which had closed—as muscle memory had taken over—opened and he saw something he’d not seen in a while: joy in his parents' faces, the admiration of his family for something other than his so-called bravery, and that they saw him at last, just the same as he’d always been now that he’d found a way to show them.
With all the emotion he felt, he didn’t want to overwhelm his parents, even at nine, even after all that had happened, so he knew what he said (signed) next would be crucial.
—Where are the Christmas songbooks?
His mother, after repeating what he asked for those not versed in ASL, laughed, wiped away a tear, and quickly found one. Saturnine opened it to “O Holy Night,” so they could all sing. His statement had been made, and he no longer needed the spotlight.
About the Author:
Bernardo Villela has short fiction included in periodicals such as Coffin Bell Journal, The Dark Corner Zine, Mortal Mag and more. He’s had stories included in anthologies such as Disturbed, From the Yonder II, There’s More of Us Than You Know, among others. He has had poetry published by Entropy, Zoetic Press, and Bluepepper as well as poetry translations with New Delta Review and AzonaL.
Website: www.miller-villela.com
Website: www.miller-villela.com
